it all started like this, torrential rain in bursts, and the compulsion to fully experience it.
and then he said this, and i couldn’t not write it down.
and then she remembered how fun chalk is when the pavement is wet.
and so did he. 
and let’s just say we were deeply moved.
and then:
and then:
now kids,
this does not apply to sex, because
birth control, for goodness’ sake.
birth control. but
this weekend, i was reminded how good it feels,
and how obscenely natural,
to stand in the pouring rain,
forgetting that concept of
umbrella,
to raise my face to the sky,
and to get rained on,
dammit.
The roaring of lions, the howling of wolves,
the raging of the stormy sea, and the destructive sword,
are portions of eternity, too great for the eye of man.
William Blake, Proverbs of Hell, in The Prophetic Books
holga, fisheye, tri-x 400. kiki, dimples, my feet.
Am I perpetually unhappy, or am I perpetually inspired?
Do I have ADHD, or do I have particularly keen senses?
Am I unable to finish a project, or am I unable to deny a potentially brilliant idea my attention?
I found this article and then this, googling—I kid you not—”creativity and distractibility.” (SPARKLY!)
“Scientists have wondered for a long time why madness and creativity seem linked,” says Carson. “It appears likely that low levels of latent inhibition and exceptional flexibility in thought might predispose to mental illness under some conditions and to creative accomplishment under others.”
“This means that creative individuals remain in contact with the extra information constantly streaming in from the environment,” says co-author and U of T psychology professor Jordan Peterson. “The normal person classifies an object, and then forgets about it, even though that object is much more complex and interesting than he or she thinks. The creative person, by contrast, is always open to new possibilities.”
“We are very excited by the results of these studies,” says Peterson. “It appears that we have not only identified one of the biological bases of creativity but have moved towards cracking an age-old mystery: the relationship between genius, madness and the doors of perception.”
Regarding me, we think the jury’s still out. But until the verdict (or the next distraction), I’m happy with this explanation.
(The study in its entirety, in PDF form, here.)
The Four. Holga, tri-x 400. Obviously.
What’s so amazing that keeps us stargazing?
And what do we think we might see?
Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection,
the lovers, the dreamers, and me.
from The Rainbow Connection, written by Paul Williams
My Kiki is not a soft, frou-frou girl. She likes loud rock songs and music she can dance to. So, imagine my surprise when I learned that she had been listening to the Sarah McLachlan version of this song on her iPod! Whether it’s the voice or the chords or the elusive meaning, I don’t know, but it moves her. The other night, I played the youtube of Kermit rockin’ the banjo for her, and we laughed. But also, dammit, I got all choked up. What is it about this song?
She wanted to understand the meaning, and I fumbled through an explanation about journey, Mystery, self-expression, connection. Drawing from a rather entertaining fire-and-brimstone vs. Love-and-Light facebook exercise in tolerance this weekend, I told her that we can’t help but walk individual paths, as we each live and experience every moment differently. But at the same time, we are all trying our best to understand the same Thing, whatever we call It, however we respond to It. We know there is beauty and magic, and it is the collective vision of everyone’s unique Truth that . . .
I’m totally lying. This is so much better than the bullshit I gave her. I’ve gotta write this down. Or just ask her what she thinks it means, because that would all go over her head.
Anyway, is this not a fan-cussin’-tastic photo (if I do say so myself)? It is the Spring of the Holga. I’ve just decided.
(p.s. yes. i’ve heard voices.)
has it been almost a week? it is not for lack of things to say, but for lack of focus on which one.
but a picture, at least, until focus shows up.
Waxing moon, crazy me. Just last night I told m’girl that I have two kinds of crabby: waning moon (woe is me) and waxing moon (everything! now! must!). She said, “the moon is waxing, right?”
I stay up too late, trying to desperately attend to all of the inspiration that speeds around my head. Sometimes I feel like a pack of hyenas upon myself, scavenging whatever is left, whatever we can get from the dead carcass of me.
The other night, around 10 PM, I felt tired. There is this wise zen-like woman in there somewhere that whispered, Burnout, love. This is burnout. Rest your body and your mind. You have all the time in the world. Take care of you. And probably, also, she said ommmmm.
But the loud, obnoxious one said, Burnout’s a stupid FUCK! A bitch I don’t have time for! A poor player that struts and frets her hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more! I’m not sure why Shakespeare was brought into it, but the loud one won, and I developed some film.
I just can’t help but like that bitchy one. She brings me things like this:
all 3 photos: tri-x 400 pushed a stop in mamiya c330 tlr
“Now you are entering the world.
You will become adult with responsibilities…
Walk with honour and dignity.
Be strong!
For you are the mother of our people…
For you will become the mother of a nation.”
Apache
My future little women and I had such fun playing with colors and shutter speeds the other night. Lately, every time I put on a skirt, Shortcake stops what she’s doing, and commands me: “Dance!” And so I dance, swishing the skirt and spinning. She stands back, watching me with a critical eye, then says things like, “Yes. Mm-hmm. Good, good.”
I don’t know if it is Spring, or these photos, or the new moon, or what. But I am craving ritual and fires and drumming and dance and lying awake in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. And such.
35mm delta 3200 scan
While editing my steaming pile of NaNoWriMo the other night, I came across this sentence: “I hovered in the silent tension between my prayer and the hope for an answer.”
I applauded myself for one good sentence (thank heavens) in a sea of trash. Then I read something a friend had written, a similar sentiment of waiting and of prayer.
It is an interesting place to be suspended. And it is not actually comfortable. It is the place between winter and spring. March 3rd. It is the place before abadoning hope, the place before you realize what you’ve known all along, the place before the un-answer. And I’m not entirely sure what to do here.
So I’m just waiting, hands crossed in my lap, feet swinging. And I don’t even know for what.
Alternative title: February is the F-word.
It is still February. February somewhat sucks. For a while there, I had decided that I was going to pump Wellbutrin into our village water system, and maybe try to transmit it electronically, as well. Or Prozac. Or Heroin. The other day, a friend read a phone-text and shook her head, laughing. “Everyone’s depressed!” And it’s true. There is some hard core depths of despair happening ’round here.
We are deep into the dark season here in Wisconsin. I’ve seen other bloggers talk about the signs of returning spring, and I want to throw a chunk of ice at them. Oh no, honey. Not here. Here we do not mention the S word, for fear of a collective breakdown. Except, shit. I just mentioned it, didn’t I? I will now pause for my fellow Doldrum-experiencers to cry with longing for the season that lingers in the distance too far beyond hope.
* * * * *
Everyone OK? Yes. See, that’s the thing. I think that everyone is OK. (I’m OK, you’re OK, OK now I’m sounding like a self-help book. ack.) I just think that a turn toward darkness in winter is a healthy, natural movement. Remember? It is when we fight it that we cause ourselves harm. I shouldn’t be feeling this way, it is his/her fault, how can we fix this, what is the problem . . .
There is no problem. There is no spoon. These Winter Doldrums have brought me some really nasty-but-good, awful-but-helpful, raw-but-fresh stuff. Stuff that productive spring will do great things with, surely. (shoot! S-word! hope! sorry!)
But, oh . . . . . spring. Spriiiiiiiiiiiiing. Maybe it is not actually so far off? I mean, it is currently snowing. And everything is still deader than dead. And the sun does still set before 6 pm. But . . . shoot! I’ve done it again! Sorry! Moment of silence.
* * * * *
And in case that pathetic little attempt at inspiration doesn’t do it for you, here are some pictures that might. They are not spring-ish in the least, but they are happy, I think. (?)
Do you know the joy of this? Can you hear it? Feel it under your feet? yesssssssssssssssssss. This is, perhaps, the best part of winter. (aside: I asked my husband, showed him the pictures, and he said, "that just looks sad." So maybe I am totally off on this?)
Ecstasy, I tell you. Sheer bliss. crrrrrack.
And, of course, there is the licking of a big hunk of snow. (Dimples) Who can resist that?
And a few more. I gave up putting them into nice little black rectangles for you:
I'm just going to assume that this was not in the driveway. (Mowgli)
And I learned something last weekend. Running in the winter can be fun! Avoiding the poorly-shoveled spots was honestly fun. Like an obstacle course. I'm serious! (Shortcake)
And name-spelling in the snow. There are few things in life as thrilling as a big stretch of undisturbed snow that you are about to have your way with. (Kiki)
I’m just sayin’.
It could be summer now, if it wanted to be.
I’d be O.K. with that.
holga tri-x early fall '09
